Chapter 83: Choices in the Dust

The Watchers convened beneath a shattered bridge near the Port River highway.

The air was cool, the evening sky just beginning to shift from dusky purple to ink-black. A soft breeze fluttered through the twisted remnants of the old bridge, carrying with it the faint hum of cars speeding by overhead. The scent of dust and rust filled the air as the wind picked up, settling on the gravel-strewn ground beneath the group.

Nine members of The Watchers sat cross-legged in a loose circle, their faces grim, bathed in the filtered light from the dying day. Shadows stretched long across the ground, adding a haunting quality to the proceedings. Only Jira remained elevated, seated in a folding chair, his age-worn body leaning slightly forward as his hands gripped the chair’s arms, as though bracing against the weight of memory too painful to forget.

Albert shifted his position, brushing a handful of grit from his faded jeans. His eyes, dark and heavy, never left Jira, whose hardened expression seemed to carry the burden of years of sorrow and regret. The silence stretched between them like a thick fog.

“Jim mentioned Kate Miller and Jason came to you for help,” Albert began, his voice steady, yet thick with the gravity of their conversation.

Jira’s wrinkled face twitched as he nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the ground for a moment before lifting to meet Albert’s. “Yes. They came by this morning, looking for aid from my tribe.” His voice was rough, the words tinged with a hint of disdain.

Albert’s brow furrowed slightly as he studied Jira’s response. “And how did you respond?”

Jira’s voice turned sharper, more resolute. “I turned them away.” His tone was like the snap of a lock, final and unyielding. “I sent them on their way.” The words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of finality.

Albert sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly before he straightened again, his expression softened by years of knowing this man and his struggles.

“Jira, consider giving them a chance to be heard. Let’s focus on their plea.” His voice carried an edge of desperation now, as though the weight of the situation was pressing against him.

Jira’s brows furrowed deeply, and his voice took on an angry edge, sharper than before. “I’ve heard it, Albert. I’ve heard it loud and clear. And neither I, nor my tribe, will lift a finger to help the police.” The words were final, delivered with a scorn that ran deep.

Albert’s jaw tensed at the coldness in Jira’s voice. His lips parted, but before he could speak, Jira’s hand shot up, silencing him with a gesture that was both commanding and filled with pain. “Move on?” Jira’s voice trembled, low and bitter, the words barely escaping his lips. “Do you know what I still hear, Albert?

The cries of the families—mothers, fathers, wives—mourning those nine men who were butchered. Because of the police. Because they did nothing. They let it happen.” His eyes flashed with the memory of it, dark and distant, haunted by the faces of the lost.

“The police couldn’t move forward, Jira,” Albert countered gently, his own voice tight with frustration. “They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest that man. They couldn’t do anything.”

Jira turned sharply, the chair creaking beneath his weight. His voice came out like a snarl. “They didn’t look hard enough!” His knuckles whitened against the chair’s arms, the tension in his body radiating through the space. “If they’d investigated properly, they would have found something—anything—to lock that beast away. Nine men would still be alive. Nine, Albert.” His voice cracked toward the end, a rawness to it that made the words linger in the air. His eyes burned with an anger that was more than just fury—it was grief, pain, and regret, all tangled together.

Albert exhaled heavily, rubbing his brow in frustration. His gaze softened, though the weight of the moment still pressed on him. “I acknowledge the police might’ve let you down. But right now—right this moment—there’s someone else in danger. That matters more than old wounds, Jira.” His voice had softened, but there was an undeniable urgency behind the words.

From the edge of the circle, Jim leaned forward, his voice breaking through the heavy silence like a sudden storm. “A few days back, a girl named Sasha Paula was abducted from her home.” The words dropped into the air like a hammer.

The silence that followed felt deafening, thick and heavy. The faint rumble of the highway traffic seemed louder now in its absence, and the weight of the revelation settled over the group like a blanket.

Jim continued, his voice steady and unyielding. “My sources say the police think she’s still alive. Eighteen years old, Jira. Her father’s only child.” His eyes met Jira’s now, unwavering. “Are you going to let your anger outweigh the pain of a father who just lost his daughter?” The challenge in his words was clear, a sharp reminder of what was at stake.

Jira slammed his hand down on the chair’s arm, the sound echoing louder than he’d intended. A crow, perched on the edge of the broken bridge, startled and took flight, its wings cutting through the silence.

“I’m not egoistic!” he snapped, his voice raw, the bitterness hanging between them. His breath was uneven as the anger built inside him, a storm that had been brewing for far too long.

Albert stepped closer, his voice calm but firm, like a steady hand in the midst of chaos. “Then prove it. This isn’t about you, or the police, or what they failed to do in the past. This is about her. Sasha Paula. Right now, she’s out there, somewhere, and every second matters. She’s someone’s daughter, someone’s hope.” His words cut through the air, each one meant to drive the point home, to cut through the fog of resentment that clouded Jira’s judgment.

Jira’s face hardened, but still, he said nothing. His gaze fell to the ground beneath his feet, the weight of the situation settling heavily in his chest. The tension between them stretched thin, like a taut wire, ready to snap at the smallest provocation.

Albert glanced around the circle of Watchers, his gaze meeting each of theirs. They were all watching Jira now, waiting. Their faces, usually stoic, were filled with quiet expectation. Finally, Albert spoke, his voice quieter this time, heavy with the urgency of their shared cause.

“Let’s make sure no one else ends up mourning.” His words were soft, but they carried the force of years of experience, of countless decisions made in the heat of the moment, all leading to this.